Tag Archives: time

I’ve been told that we’re supposed to grow from pain. Learn from the past, forgive, grow stronger, gain wisdom and character. Take to our faith in troubled times, and embrace it.

There’s truth in those beliefs. We’re always growing, moving, and changing. Even when we dig in our heels, and hide under the covers. Because you can’t stop life, even when you’re broken, even when your caught in bliss.

If only there was a way to dump out all of the emotions life forces out onto a table and sort them all out. “Here. Here is my pile of what I am mad about. Here’s the stack of happy thoughts. Over there is my sad. There’s a basket of things I need to forgive. There’s the box of what I wish to be forgiven for.” Clear cut, simplified, and sort-able. manageable. Instead of the jumble mix of jealousy, hurt, anger, fear, happiness and so forth that flies back and forth like a dust storm.

Because life keeps moving, and there’s little time to fully embrace each emotion and handle them properly. It’s saying goodbye to one family member who you knew would soon be parting from this earth, to having another one taken without warning before you hung your funeral dress back up in the closet, the awkward heels still in your car. It’s the dying inside while you’re rushing another family member off to the ER, while keeping the kids busy and quiet in the waiting room. Topped off with another family member coming back into your life, that you might not be ready for, because are you still mad, hurt, angry, scared, or morning them? All the while just trying to save every dime to keep your home, and gas in your car.

If only life would just provide time to breathe.

There’s so much to think about, to feel, to deal with. There’s so many words to say. But when you know others are hurting so much worse, you can’t risk that one lonely minute in which you might lose control and fall apart 100%. Because life demands you keep moving.

Oh but this tiny little broken heart is tired of this age of loss it has found itself in. And it’s mad at the mess one family had created. It’s desperate to see one soul once again, even for a moment to say good-bye. It wants to move on, it wants to be ticked, and it wants hurt. And it wants others to let it just be. Alone, hidden, trembling, until it’s too tired to weep anymore. Then maybe it can move on, and deal with the million other demands put in front of it. Maybe then it can love despite the past without judgement. Maybe.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. That’s the kind of thing that happens while you sit at your desk, knitting until your fingers and wrists go numb, watching millions of images load ever so slowly on your dino-dial-ups for Pintrest. There’s been topics fluttering in my mind, words to mash out on this blank screen… but knitting doesn’t work well with typing. You loose your count and your train of thought all at one time. Trust me.

And it’s hard to work on this, when you need to work on that. Priorities wrestle with wants. Needs fling mud at desires. Options and choices wrestle in the jello pit that once was a functional brain. Everything fights you, time, budgets, noises, small people wanting things.

It’s like the first time I looked into selling handmade goods on Etsy, they say, “Choose one medium”. Choose one. Like that’s possible for me. I can knit, crochet, draw, paint, sew, quill, carve, stamp, shape… not that I have valuable skills in every form, but choosing one is like asking me if I want to keep my right or my left leg… um, all please?

I want to do it all, because what if I choose the wrong one? My hobby is hobbies. But I want one to be mine. Or at least three. Maybe four. My hard limit is at nine, honestly.

And somehow this all links back to writing. What if. I mean really, what if? What if while I’m busy training dogs (or not so busy, thank you economy), and knitting my fingers off to pay the bills, supporting my writer friends, promoting them, blogging about nothing, chasing kids, trying to make a garden/homestead on a rock bed, pretending I know how to sing for the fake band… What if, deep in my computer’s files, laying in wait, is the next big thing. And in my interview with Ellen (because Oprah erks me to no end) she asks how long it took me to write this book, that instantly sold out, and the movie rights were bought before it was even published… I have to say, twenty years. And I have to admit that for 19 of those years it was sitting there in my computer’s memory, because I was too friggen scared/hard on myself to even try. And she’s going to laugh and call me cute, while holding up one of my washcloths and make some cute joke about loving Jesus and drinking beer.

Okay so I doubt that’s how anything would unfold. But what if?

But where’s the time? And where the frick, is the confidence? Because all I know is that them washcloths will not make themselves. And sitting here, typing about what if’s does not pay the bills.

Night has come, and the minions are safely away in their beds. I fill my cup, grab a snack, and settle onto my couch. Tonight will be the night I finally read that book. You know the book with two inches of dust on it, the book I just had to read.

I snuggle into the blanket, and begin. Page one.

“Hun, did you call the phone company?” My husband questions.

“Yup, it’s fixed.” I respond quickly, and restart the first sentence.

“Can you even believe what Obama said today! Yada yada, blah, blah, yada, and so on…..”

I let out a deep sigh, reply and again restart the first sentence.

“And then at work today… (add in lots of visual demonstrations)”

I nod, sigh again and exaggerate the movement of me once again picking up my book.

“Mommy, I can’t sleep.” the boy calls out from the hallway.

Half an hour later I am still on the first sentence.

They tell me that one day this will change. I’m betting it will happen when I’m finally in a nursing home, but my vision will probably be gone, and I’ll have to wait for some ungrateful teenager who’s only there for service hours to scream it at me in my right ear while texting their bff that the drool on my chin is grossing them out. Punk kids, they have no respect.

And I’ll tell that bastard child about back in the days when I had to drive a whole hour, up hill, in the snow to buy that book, with two young children in tow, using my own change that I stole out of the laundry. And then I’ll hit that young snot with my cane on top of their head.

Then I’ll probably get locked up in the crazy hallway where the volunteers aren’t allowed to go down, the one with all of the alarms, and mashed peas on the menu every night, so we don’t choke ourselves, and I’ll cry out at night to the nurses about how all I ever wanted in life was to read a whole damn book.

And then I’ll die. And out of boredom one of the nurses will google my name and find this blog and then, THEN, she’ll be feeling real bad.

Dear Santa,

I think I have been plenty good this year. I did not eat any of the minions, and I did not sell them to the gypsies. I even allowed the boy to go off to school, and I didn’t cry or embarrass him! And don’t forget the weeks of taking care of my husband without smothering him with a pillow! Dang, I was real good. I didn’t even cuss out John Wayne when he broadsided the car. You might say that I was perfect.

So if we can, because both you and I have deadlines here, just get right on down to the asking for stuffs…

Time. I need it, I want it, I lust for it. I just want a little bit of it. Like one day every few weeks all to myself. And I don’t mean everyone tapping on my back as quiet as they can. I mean a hotel room with a coffee maker and a plug for my laptop. One whole day. Alone. Heck I’d even take getting lost in my woods for a day with a huge thermos of coffee and a notebook. My brain and I need a date.

Direction. Everybody has a different compass for my life lately, and they’re all pointing in different directions. I can only seem to make it to my coffee maker right now. I’d like my compass to be tiny and pink, with a clear true north.

Family. Fix it, could ya? Just bring her back, minus the bow. The big red bow is overdone. (for those who are reading and aren’t all-knowing like Santa, I’ll explain later.)

Success. I get that success is my own to make. But you and your elves must have some sort of success miracle grow right? Just a wee bit of help would rock.

Health. How about just a general boost for all of us? You know where it’s needed most.

Peace. Just peace. Not peace on earth and all of the nonsense. How about just calmness to the brain, happiness in the heart, a rested soul, and drama free days.

The White House. Make it mine. ‘Nuff said.

And don’t forget the Starbucks under the tree that’s fully staffed and doesn’t cost me a dime.

Okay and if that’s a lot to ask the man who can do it all, I guess I could handle a new bundle of books, some more Dead Man’s Reach coffee, a new coffee mug, some pens, some notebooks and some awesome notecards.

I am hungry for critiques, advice, guidance. Be they gentle or harsh I want them, I need them. I welcome them.

Just please don’t scream at me when the car is rolling backwards down the hill, 5 minutes into my “how to drive a stick shift lesson”. And don’t remind me that it was MY bright idea to learn right then and there, in the dark, while it’s raining.

I do think that I am going somewhere with this…

Ummmm… Yes, now I remember…

Tonight I am celebrating my first step up in the blogging world. I received my first Hate Mail! *dances wildly in muh seat” Seriously, it’s making me giddy, or at least smirky and snarky all rolled up into one. Someone took the time to tell me how much they dislike me.

See normally I would guess that most people are like me. You read something you don’t like and you click that big giant X that’s all red on the top right hand corner of the screen. It’s magic really, and I wish it worked on taxes. CLICK and POOF it’s all gone.

But nope, I am just so special enough that they had to click on comments, enter a message, fill out some info AND press another whole box to submit the whole thing.

That’s proof that I, my friends, am some kind of special, and that my virgin newbie-ness is longgggg gone.

I have a point to sharing all of this. It’s not to give credit to some stupid comment, but to give credit to all of us who aren’t afraid of such comments. You have to filter out the true critiques from people who only have balls when their computer boots up.

I have a lot of friends who want to blog, who have thoughts they are dying to share, but fear the public’s thoughts. There’s nothing in here/out there to fear. Nothing at all. I don’t write for the guy who found my writing to be “pointless and a waste of time” I write for me. Yes it rocks when a post get’s tons of hits, and yes it’s a downer when a post gets 0 hits… but I’m still going to type on.

There’s no growing in the not doing.

Put yourself out there for YOU.

As for the comment I got, I’m thinking about framing it… or maybe even a tattoo. Because a pointless waste of time would truly be taking life way too seriously. And sometimes we all need that reminder.

Now back to celebrating 2 trips around the neighborhood, with me driving a stick shift for the first time EVER and not killing ANYONE including the car!

All shriveled like an old banana peel, or one of them hideous shriveled apples that are cut to look like an old woman’s face. That’s me, shriveled apple head.

I suppose I can blame the massive amounts of pain-killers that I’ve been taking to relieve my nasty TMJ problems, or the countless hours of the bebe pulling me to the Christmas tree saying, “Ook, ook, ook, wowwwww, pirty, Ook!”, or maybe because I was one of those that had to go shopping Friday morning at 12 am…

(Dear Santa, Emily wants a Starbucks under her tree)

I tried to work, I really did. 50 billion times I sat down at my computer, all with good intentions. But my husband won’t buy me an electric fence to rope around my corner in the dining room and the bebe kept trying to steal my coffee, and the boy kept trying to smoosh play dough on my lap, and and and…

Did I mention that all three of our car batteries died on Thanksgiving? I mean dead-dead, no worky no more. Thank you Wal-Mart for being open, I don’t care what anyone says!

And back to the point. I want to hear from YOU today. What do you do when your brain turns into a rotten apple? Do you have secret non-fail blogging prompts? Or do you slip away into a non-blogging coma and eat a bag of chocolates? And last but not least, How do you make the time, especially if you have young ones in your home?

Quite honestly I have been out of words since I wrapped up this year’s NaNoWriMo challenge. So when my friend trapped me into reading her blog that ended with a question, I decided to hijack the whole thing and make it into today’s post. You can check out what she said here.

She asked, So now my question is, can you name a few things you’re grateful for? Things/People/Thoughts you can bring up on a dark day of yours that will do you some cheering up? Pipe in people?

But she also yelled at us to STFU in her title… confuses me she does. *snort* But I’m going to give it a shot anyway…

I’m thankful, grateful for those moments. You know the ones, the moments that make your eyes pop wide open, and make your heart melt into putty. Those are the ones. Moments that for no reason change everything in your world, until you get too busy and you let go of them.

Moments when you’re broken down, crying to the skies, when the sun breaks through the clouds and once again you can stand up, still sad, but better.

The moments when you look at your children and they just give you that look back. That look that says you’re doing things right, and that they will forever love you no matter what.

Those moments when the world stops, and you feel deeply loved. Even when you know that person always loves you, but every once in a while they reconfirmed it, without doing a single thing.

I’m thankful for those quiet moments I get outside, alone, lost in my own thoughts. Where my mind quiets and rests.

And there’s the times when a friend pops out of nowhere and calls, or writes, or sends a card, always when you needed it the most, always when you thought you were alone, always without knowing how much you needed it.

I’m grateful for those times when your heart is finally at peace and you realize that even if you lost every material possession that you owned and that things would still be okay. It’s when you realize things are nothing more than that, things.

I find thanks in those moments that make no sense. Those times when you’re hurt, abandoned, lost. In those moments is when you find your true faith, your true heart, your true self. Those are the times that we learn, grow and change. That is when we’re shaped and molded.

I used to have a “thing”, a thing that was all my own. I’d have that spotlight that I craved, get that attention… it was mine. All of which was an odd thing on its own, as I’m incredibly shy and would be on the verge of vomiting and panic attacks when I would even consider standing out.

And then the uniqueness fluttered away, my thing became everyone’s thing and I slowly lost my nerve. Competition always destroyed my guts. I’m a wuss.

And then the thing became replaced by new things, family, bills, being an adult. I lost sight of anything outside of the family/adult thing. Things of the past just couldn’t fit in.

Lately though I have come to realize that I’m missing having my own thing, whatever that thing may be. There’s a gut feeling that without that thing I may soon lose the edge on the things I do have.

Have I said “thing” enough yet?

But what is that thing?

How do you fit in a thing of your own while still kicking arse at the day-to-day things?

Will I ever figure this out and stop rambling endlessly on this topic?

Did you notice that in that picture I still managed a ponytail even though my hair is like 2 inches long?

And will George Harrison’s song about time and money ever get out of my head this morning?